Draw Your Silverware But Keep It Clean
by Gray Doll
Summary: "There are only so many times one can shoot college students, don a Dracula costume, and grope an unwilling partner tied to a chair before it all crosses the line into pure rudeness." - In which Jane is willing to be friendly, Red John can't handle emotional stress, Bret Stiles is indignant and Lisbon is forced to attend the most awkward dinner of her life.


**notes**: Well. I do not know what's with me and weird things lately. I guess this is a result of me thinking that if Red John _must_ have been one of the seven suspects, it should have been Haffner, that Bret Stiles would be a great mentor-like figure for him, and that Red John just can't handle emotional stress. Oh, and that he must have felt very offended when he figured out there were six more possible RJ suspects.

* * *

**Draw Your Silverware But Keep It Clean**

During his much-needed vacation in Europe, Bret Stiles hears through the Italian charter of his informants that several of Raymond's more zealous acolytes were beginning to run loose and cause mayhem in California, his personal secretary was lying in a box at the morgue as a direct result of another one of Ray's ungentlemanly tantrums, Teresa Lisbon had become a very possible victim, Ray was constantly showing up at the CBI and in its agents' lives, and if all this was not distressing enough, that Ray had thrown out Bret's prized silverware in yet another unrelated tantrum.

He is almost about to sigh, before he refrains himself; such displays are unsuitable at the dinner table, and Bret does so hate to be rude. He did not become such a powerful man by not polishing his behavior, after all.

"That shit," Lorelei says from the other end of the dining table (Bret himself had agreed to help her out of the country when Ray had expressly told him he intended to murder her), "is ridiculous."

Bret thinks, resignedly, that the finer points of etiquette would have been lost on his unlikely dinner companion, anyway. So he indulges, and lets the air out through his nose slowly.

"It is regrettable."

"I mean, I get it, of course," Lorelei carries on, her red wine sloshing out of its glass and staining the carpet. Bret suppresses the urge to sigh again. "But what is he now, the sociopath equivalent of impotent? How can he not keep a hold on his cronies?"

This is not a conversation Bret wants to have, and he refrains from giving her a very pointed look.

"Targeting law enforcement. Having your name on a list of psycho suspects. Mid-life crisis." Lorelei pauses, regarding Bret's impassive stare. "Perhaps what causes everything is erectile dysfunction. It could also be the cause of all the women-hating. Oh trust me, I _know_."

Bret's gaze turns skywards. He feels a headache coming on.

**.**

**.**

He arrives back in Sacramento quietly, without fanfare or mutilated bystanders, which he feels is something Ray would like to take notes of for future reference. There are only so many times one can shoot college students, don a Dracula costume, and grope an unwilling partner tied to a chair before it all crosses the line into pure rudeness.

Bret is quite pleased with Lorelei's decision not to accompany him. What he isn't pleased with is the distinct sounds of Ray yelling, perfectly audible even from his position at the main entrance of the house, next to the fountain (and good God, he must really talk to him about changing the decoration – he is the heir to _Visualize_, not some nouveau-riche Texan guy getting rich off oil money).

Also the yelling.

"I've done everything to make this look perfect!" Ray is screaming when he makes his way down the main hall. "Do you think you would look this good if I didn't spend an hour in here, fumbling with the fucking nail paintbrush-"

The younger man stops when he sees Bret at the door, and the two of them regard each other silently.

"Where you just-" Bret starts.

"No." Ray replies, practically tearing off his rubber gloves and slamming the door to the bedroom shut behind him. "No, I wasn't."

Bret can only nod. Well. This is awkward.

"I see," he says finally.

Ray takes a second to collect himself, before he's sneering. Bret needs to talk to him about the sneering, also. "Come running back, then, Mr Stiles? Decided to return and help out a little?"

"I see you've already reverted to your old ways," Bret says lightly. "This is not a way to treat corpses, Raymond. Especially _not_ in your own house."

Ray blinks.

_Please don't cry_, Bret thinks. _Please don't throw a tantrum_.

Ray's lip trembles. Bret sighs.

**.**

**.**

"No one understands me," Ray whispers, eight scotches and two Cubans later. "I'm alone in this world, I've been abandoned, everyone leaves me-"

If Bret had been a lesser man, he would have rolled his eyes right about now.

"So you drowned your pain in painting toenails, and Patrick Jane is already suspecting you."

"Yes, Patrick, my old friend." Ray shakes his head tearfully. "You have no idea how painful it was to even think that I would be merely a name among six others. _Six_ others, Bret!"

("I am nothing like him, he does not love me, and we will never become _friends_," Patrick had seethed on more than one occasion. "Also I'd appreciate it, Bret, if you could get him to stop thinking that. If, of course, you are as close to him as you claim to be, which I highly doubt.")

Bret refrains from contradicting Ray; instead he says, "ah."

When the younger man remains silent and moves to grab another bottle, Bret clears his throat and plasters on his most serious expression. "There is a very specific set of rules," he says, "that comes into play in regards to killing people in this house and in the Visualize buildings, handling your followers, and keeping a low profile when being a primary suspect in a serial killer case. I think it's time you learned it."

"I will kill you too, then," Ray retorts, slumping backwards, and only then does Bret notice the dried blood on the pillow. _Oh Good Lord_. "Don't think that I won't-"

"_We do not go where Patrick Jane goes when we are on his list of Red John suspects_," Bret snaps, before he calms himself. "We do not paint dead women's toenails and thus diminish our own masculinity and become a laughing stock for other serial killers. We do not stab people when they are likely to disagree with our actions. We do not embark on ambitious killing sprees when we have so many cult business to run. We do not let our followers run loose and rabid when there is so much at stake. And most of all, _we do not set out eyes on our nemesis' soon-to-be lady_."

In his distress, he had not noticed that said lady was standing outside the front door, and was ringing the bell. Along with the aforementioned nemesis.

Knowing he will only arouse suspicion if he doesn't let them in, he opens the door and the pair walks in, Teresa furrowing her brow and her steps determined, Patrick with a huge grin, looking positively elated to see them both.

But Patrick looks positively elated generally.

"Bret," he greets cheerfully. "When did you get back?"

"Not long ago," he replies and hears Ray mumble something under his breath behind him. _Please behave_. "What brings you here at this time of day, Patrick?"

Teresa replies instead, voice full of authority despite the slightly nervous flitting of her eyes. "We are here for an inve-"

"No, no, we are not _investigating_!" Patrick chides her playfully, although his eyes are on Ray. "We've merely come here because, well, the last time Ray and I saw each other, three days ago while solving the Manchester case – well, things weren't exactly matey between us. I'd like to fix that."

"Great," Bret murmurs, seeing no other way out of this; "Why don't we all have dinner together tomorrow night, at, ah, eight?"

Ray's eyes widen; so do Teresa's, but Patrick's grin widens, if that is humanly possible. "Sounds _wonderful_," he beams.

Several minutes later, when the two men are alone again, Ray looks like he's about to throw a vase right at Bret's head. "You said to keep a _low profile_, you hypocrite!"

Bret, once again, tries very hard not to sigh. "The truth is, some proper social interaction will do wonders for your attitude, Ray. Besides, the only way to avoid Patrick thinking _you_ are Red John, is to convince him you have no idea about this list of his."

"Go to hell," Ray snaps, and Bret only blinks.

_How terribly rude_.

**.**

**.**

"Eat your vegetables," Bret says. Ray is trying to make eye contact with Teresa, who is studiously looking away, but his eyes dart to Patrick's direction occasionally, full of something Bret is determined not to make sense of.

Patrick himself looks perfectly at ease, his grin never faltering. However Bret thinks that it is actually Teresa who's the only one at the table, besides him, of course, not fidgeting, sneering, placing her elbows on the table or contemplating murder.

"I don't want to eat my vegetables," Ray snaps, obviously drunk, and Bret regrets not having thrown away every single bottle of scotch before dinner. "I want Patrick to explain how and why I have been put on the same list as six bumbling baboons. How on earth are _they_ even _close_ to the Red John profile?"

And just like that, everything shatters, and Bret is seriously contemplating sticking his silver knife in Ray's eye.

He brings his wine glass to his lips instead, and waits for the inevitable commotion to begin.

Teresa, predictably, gasps. Patrick stills, blinks, stares, puts down his fork, takes a deep breath, stares some more, and then _smiles_. And just like that, Bret knows that everything has gone to hell. So much for a friendly dinner. He should have stayed in Rome after all.

"Well you don't, either," Patrick says airily, and Bret is about to determine if trying to decide whether Patrick is a genius or an idiot is worth it. "I mean, really? That sheriff is a more likely candidate than _you_, Ray, no offense."

Ray's face falls for half a second, and then he has dragged Patrick from his chair and pinning him by the throat against the wall.

Bret spears a cube of steak and puts it in his mouth, chewing quickly. "And how is law enforcement treating you lately, Teresa?"

She looks about to faint – or take out her gun and just shoot everyone in the room. He can't imagine why. She bolts from her chair, and then remembers that she is on suspension because of Jane, again, and therefore does not carry a gun. "Let him go!"

Patrick is caught between shrieking, and laughing just to provoke his attacker, and ends up wheezing out a chuckle, eliciting a growl from Ray.

Bret sighs. "Ray, please put him down."

"Not until he tells me why he doesn't like me-" Ray looks startled, clears his throat, "I mean, not until he tells me why... why..."

Bret pinches the bridge of his nose. "Ray. He is a dinner guest. We do not threaten dinner guests in the vicinity of the table; this is basic etiquette, and we have been over this."

Teresa's mouth is open wide. "What the _fuck_?"

Bret sets down his fork, and takes a deep breath. "Murder occurring during or after the feast is only acceptable when the table is out of sight or when the act itself is efficient and quick. Torture and threats are not permitted during dining unless one is speaking softly and initiating no physical contact."

Honestly, it's as if Ray had not listened to him _once_ over the years.

Now Ray has given up all pretenses, and is shaking Patrick by the throat._ Please don't cry_, Bret thinks. "_Why. Don't. You. Like. Me. Only._"

Teresa is screaming too, propelling herself forwards until she collides with Ray's back and the three of them tumble to the floor, and _God_, Bret feels that headache settling in for good.


End file.
